Ouroboros
by TSOHG A MA I
Summary: When Sophie Parish, an almost supernaturally perceptive student, starts investigating the mystery around the Chamber of Secrets...Tom Riddle is not pleased. SemiSI!OC. Explores reincarnation, alchemy, and space travel, among other obscure magical subjects.
1. The Girl With the Serpent Tattoo

***.*.*.***

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 ** _THE GIRL WITH THE SERPENT_** ** _TATTOO_**

 **A** nyone who knew Sophia Parish would describe her as a quiet, pleasant young lady, if a little radical and ambitious—but that was par for the course in Slytherin house. She had a sly mischief about her that betrayed itself in the corner of full lips when they formed her secretive little smile. It was in the glitter of her eyes when she looked at people sometimes—like she knew something they didn't, and was trying desperately not to laugh at them. Though, perhaps she was not representative of _all_ Slytherin traits…

For one thing, she seemed willingly oblivious to the rigid social hierarchy the house tended to demand of its students. She was particularly studious and quite a talented witch at that, when most girls of her generation were more focused on relationships and arranged nuptials rather their aptitude with a wand. Her head of house, Professor Slughorn, despaired over her disinclination towards networking, and when he'd questioned her about her future career choices, she'd baffled him by launching into a lengthy and complicated explanation of strange astronomical and alchemical equations that coincided closely with some extremely esoteric reaches of muggle studies, at which point he had stopped listening. The girl was generally polite to everyone, but as her mind usually existed on another plain of reality entirely, she kept to herself for the most part, save for a scattering of acquaintances from other houses, and her best friend, Eileen Prince—whom she was rarely seen without. Most of her housemates chose to view her as an amicable eccentric, always ready to lend a hand to those falling behind on their studies, and left it at that.

But none of them, save, perhaps, Eileen, really knew who she was.

The girl, despite her friendliness, was an _intensely_ private person…and reasonably so.

The term of 1942 was a bad time to be a muggle-born in Slytherin.

 _The Chamber of Secrets has been opened…_ said the line of bloody writing on the wall.

 _Enemies of the Heir beware…_

Sophie didn't know if he was trying to rhyme or not, but overall, she thought it a fairly poor choice of words. Then again, Riddle had always had a sick sense of humor, she thought grimly… She felt her eyes unconsciously drifting over towards the other end of the table, but somewhere in her head, a mental rubber band snapped, and they zipped back to her egg-in-a-basket with a start. One does _not_ acknowledge the existence of future dark lords, if at all conceivably possible, she reminded herself sharply. Overcompensating for her almost lapse, she put far too much concentration towards cutting into the toast with her knife and fork.

She'd already made that dismal mistake when she tried being nice to him on the train, but it only seemed to make him suspicious of her. Their entire first year, he watched Sophie with wary eyes as if he suspected she was out to steal his soul! Which really _was_ ironic, incidentally… In any other situation, it might have even been comical. But Tom Riddle was a highly intelligent young man, with a knack for judging the character of others, and in all honesty, he was _right_ to be suspicious of her. After all, Sophie was hiding something of _much_ greater consequence; something that made the misfortune of her muggle parentage seem absolutely _trivial_ in comparison… And Tom Riddle was one of those people who could just _tell_ when someone was untruthful with him. Perhaps because he was often untruthful himself, and recognized it easily in others?

Like him, Sophie was very rarely genuine with her true feelings. Much of her friendliness and eccentricity was over-exaggerated—a carefully maintained ruse she used to keep others at arm's length. For various reasons, this did not work on Tom Riddle, (nor on Eileen Prince, for some reason Sophie still didn't understand) … In any case, it was almost a given that the boy shut down all her overtures of friendship early on, before they could really gain purchase; something she felt she should have anticipated from the start. If she'd given up on the (doomed to fail) friendship scheme earlier, she could have employed her avoidance gambit with much more success, and it would have saved her a good deal of grief. This year, however, seemed to be nothing _but_ grief…

It all started when Ogg, the school's game-keeper, had found all the roosters slaughtered. It caused some alarm for a short time, but no one panicked or roused up too much of a fuss. No one but Sophie, anyway. Next went the spiders—tumbling after each other out of the castle in eerie, single-file queues no one but Sophie seemed to notice. Normally, she would have been happy to see the last of the eight-legged-menaces, but in this case…well… Everything seemed to be going fine until Mary Hammond was found.

Now, already, several people she knew had been petrified.

Sophie knew, in her special way of knowing things, that it was only a matter of time before someone ended up _dead_ …

And if Riddle found out her secrets…she wouldn't be the only one in trouble.

"Are you feeling alright?"

Eileen's squeeze of her hand made Sophie jump, blinking quickly out of her staring match with her uneaten toast.

"Sorry," she said quickly to her friend, her voice coming out rather breathless. "I'm just…" Eileen eyed her critically with those cynical black eyes of hers, and Sophie was—as always seemed to be the case with this particular witch—compelled to tell the truth, "… _worried_."

The girl's abyssal eyes softened incrementally, and she squeezed her hand once again in silent consolation. As a muggle-born, Sophie had a right to be terrified, and they both knew it. Unbeknownst to Eileen, Sophie was worried about much more than _that_ …but the Prince girl's secret power seemed to be squeezing information out of Sophie like twisting a dishrag dry.

" _Everyone_ is worried…" she verged, eyeing Sophie closely. "What are _you_ worried about, specifically?"

Sophie's stomach flipped upside-down and she felt what little color she had in her face drain from it sluggishly.

"What would you say if I told you, hypothetically…" she began, leaning in to scarcely breathe in the other girl's ear, "that I know _exactly_ who is responsible for all this…?"

Eileen's expression very deliberately did not change.

Then she looked Sophie dead in the eye, and said, "…I'd tell you to stay the hell out of his way."

Sophie blinked, stricken…but she couldn't say she was surprised. After all, that's what she'd been trying to do for the past six years, with varying amounts of success. But this time…this time it just felt _wrong_.

She leaned in even closer to whisper almost inaudibly, "What if I told you that, at this very moment, he's sitting three seats over and one across from you…?"

 _Don't look at Riddle, don't look at Riddle—sweet_ _ **Merlin**_ _—don't look at Riddle, don't look at Riddle…_

Neither of them looked.

(That would be acknowledging the existence of a future dark lord, and Sophie hadn't deliberately been that self-defeating since her first year).

Instead, after daintily patting her lips with a napkin, Eileen stood from the table abruptly—though not without her ubiquitous poise—quietly grabbed Sophie's wrist, and dragged her out of the Great Hall without much ado. The Prince girl continued in this abrupt manner, sweeping down the corridor until they reached a suitable broom closet before proceeding to unceremoniously shove Sophie into it. She was immediately after her, securing the door, warding and locking it magically behind her. And within less than a moment, she was upon her.

" _Are you insane?"_ she hissed at her furiously.

Half-bemused, half-chagrined, Sophie shrugged.

"At this point? If I'm not yet, then I'm certainly going to be." She paused then added, "If I'm not _dead_ by the time this is over, that is."

Eileen pinched the bridge of her nose in vexation.

"That is _not_ what I want to hear, Sophie."

"Well, I'm _sorry_ ," she shot back, sounding anything but, "but I don't know what I'm supposed to do—and I don't see you offering up any helpful suggestions!"

"I _gave_ you my suggestion," Eileen pointed out flatly, her eyes hard.

"What, to stay out of his way?" Eileen nodded. Sophie stared, completely nonplussed. "You mean to say I should just watch this all play out then? That I should just… _not_ do anything?"

"Do you have any proof?" her logical friend fired off.

"Not an ounce of it," Sophie answered tonelessly.

"Then yes, that's exactly what I mean to say," Eileen summed up emotionlessly. At Sophie's horrified, colorless expression, the girl expressed with an air of heavy exasperation, "You're not a _Gryffindor_ , Sophie! This isn't something you can just charge at head on! You _need_ proof."

Sophie's green eyes entreated her friend almost desperately.

"You… _you_ believe me, don't you, Leenie?" she whispered, so anxious she was close to tears. At the flicker of doubt in her friends eyes, she grasped onto her, jabbering, "It's _him_ , Leenie, I know it's him— _please_ , you have to believe me—"

Eileen squeezed both her hands reassuringly, and said, "Of course I believe you—but it's not _me_ you need to convince, it's Dippet. Find some proof, and bring it to Dumbledore. Everyone knows he _hates_ Ri—" she broke off, as if saying his name might summon him, and shortly amended, "—You-Know-Who…"

Sophie's eyes widened at the familiar epitaph, and she suddenly burst into hysterical laughter, startling Eileen into letting go of her hands.

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry, it's just, I-I…" Sophie hiccupped, wiping tears away from her eyes, "I think I _really_ might be going insane…"

Her cynical friend clucked her tongue with disapproval.

"Too much stress," she muttered, eyeing Sophie with a critical eye and tapping her chin in thought. "I'll make you something that should help you become less of a nervous wreck later. This should help for now…"

She waved her wand wordlessly and Sophie was immediately filled with warmth from the silent cheering charm. It wouldn't last for long, but it would at least help her save face for the time it would take her to calm down on her own. She smiled gratefully, and joined their arms when Eileen offered hers without prompting, discretely exiting the broom closet.

"Thanks…" she murmured genuinely, leaning against the other girl companionably. "I'm glad you're my friend, Eileen."

She sniffed derisively, and pointed out, "Who _else_ would want to be your friend?"

Sophie grinned at her, knowing not to take offense to her sardonic remarks. In fact, Eileen's snarky attitude was what Sophie loved most about her. She spoke her mind, regardless of how cold and sarcastic everyone else found her. The girl had a cutting sense of humor that appealed to Sophie on several different levels. And yet, deep down, under all the Slytherin and Pureblood pomp, Eileen had a heart of gold. Not only that, but she played a _mean_ game of gobstones. If she didn't have such an obvious (and _terrible_ ) taste in men, Sophie would probably ask Eileen Prince to marry her someday.

But today, she merely smiled and said, " _That_ , my dear, is a question I'm quite happy not to know the answer to..."

.*.*.*.

 **S** ophie took Eileen's words to heart, and after Charms let out, she bid her friend adieu and headed directly for the library. Her shoulders were hunched and she was careful not to look up from the floor, ears pricked for any telltale sounds of slithering, rough scales on stone, or _worse_ , hissing… She knew exactly what she was looking for, but naturally, whenever she found herself around an unnatural number of books, she found herself getting distracted. Not only did she manage to locate her damning evidence, but she picked out several different volumes that interested her, some of which seemed especially promising for her own personal projects—astronomy, alchemy, magical transportation, and one especially interesting tome describing magical religious roots and pagan history around the world.

She put the book on dangerous beasts aside, ready to take it directly to Dumbledore. She had evidence to damn the creature, if not the puppet master, yet surely Dumbledore could put whatever she had to good use. Not only that, but this might at least keep poor Rubeus Hagrid safe from the fallout of whatever happened next… Sophie had a soft spot for the friendly half-giant, despite his abysmal taste in many-legged pets… She resolved to get him a hermit crab as a form of appeasement someday.

She was just getting to an especially interesting chapter in _Afterlife: A World History_ , and so she did not look up when she heard someone settle across from her little table nook. That is until they greeted her in a darkly familiar voice swaddled in silky charm that sent a violent shiver down her spine.

"Hello, Miss Parish…"

Sophie tensed as if all her bones had suddenly been replaced with steel rods.

But it was only a passing moment, and she swallowed discretely before looking up from the passage she'd been reading with masterfully feigned surprise.

"Hullo, Riddle." She hesitated only slightly before she added, "Did you need something?"

He was dapper as ever, nary a hair out of place with a pleasantly interested smile gracing his perfectly sculpted features. His skin so resembled porcelain some days that she wondered if it might _crack_ like a Venetian festival mask if he was ever introduced to excessively disagreeable cold weather conditions. Then again, she wondered if it might do that anyway if he were ever to wear a genuine smile on his face. She hoped not, because she was afraid of what she might see between those cracks…

It never failed to rile Sophie's ire whenever she had to look at him.

As it was, she was careful to focus on his attractively squared jaw rather than his eyes; she'd gotten quite proficient at avoiding his attempts at legilimancy as of late, she thought. And it was no great loss, she told herself. Riddle's dark eyes were always dead and flat looking anyway. Creepy bastard…

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you…" he apologized with a remarkable attempt at a contrite smile upon his deceptively seraphic features.

Of course, he was far from an angel. He was here because he wanted something from her, and Sophie wasn't sure she wanted to find out what it was.

Instead of voicing that thought, however, Sophie just shook her head, saying, "Not at all. What can I help you with?"

 _Get to the point, then leave_ , she begged him silently, _get to the point, then leave_ …

Riddle smiled winningly at her again while she tried not to cringe back, "Oh, nothing really. I just happened to see you over here, and I was wondering if you were still working on that Alchemy essay for Professor Steiner."

She and Riddle were some of the few students to take Professor Steiner's class. Overachievers, most of them. Alchemy usually wasn't offered as a class to students at Hogwarts, but Sophie had been _very_ determined…

"Right, yeah. I finished that ages ago—here," she picked up a book, _Alchemical Formulas Through the Ages_ , from her sizable stack and shoved it at him. "If you're falling short on inspiration, there's some really useful references in section three—I've read through the whole thing twice. Fascinating, really. You'll love it."

 _Take it and go,_ she pleaded, _just take it and go_.

As he accepted the text graciously, Sophie's wrist tilted slightly, allowing the sleeve of her robe to chivvy up a just bit, exposing the edge of some dark, animated ink on her inner forearm. Riddle's sharp eyes spotted it instantly, and Sophie tensed again as his long, white fingers encircled her wrist—not ungently—and rotated her arm to better inspect it.

"What's this?" he asked, sounding intrigued.

"Oh, erm…" Sophie swallowed her distaste at the contact, and pulled her sleeve up rather bashfully at the attention. "Just a little something I picked up in Knockturn Alley last year when I managed to nip away from my parents for a bit…" She laughed a little shakily. "They still don't know I have it."

Inked under her skin was the depiction of a snake eating its own tail. At times, it would contort into an eight on its side, symbolizing eternity. The backdrop of a multicolored and multilayered transmutation diagram with seven distinct points played behind it, lined with various tiny runes, symbols, and scriptures. Among them, predominately, were the symbols for the body, the soul, and the spirit.

He stared at it intensely, tracing the serpent lightly with the edge of his fingertip. Sophie prayed he couldn't tell she'd just erupted in gooseflesh—and not the good kind.

She almost jumped when he declared, "I like it."

"Really?" She arched a skeptical brow at him, grateful when he released her, the tension diffusing slightly. "You don't think it entirely inappropriate and unladylike? I've been lectured by at least six different people by now, you know…"

"It's surprising," he admitted. "But I think it suits you, if you don't find me too bold in saying so."

Surprised herself, and more than a little suspicious, Sophie muttered, "Thanks, Riddle…"

"What does it mean, if you don't mind my asking…" he asked suddenly, yet tactfully as always; he still eyed the writhing snake closely.

"Er…well," Sophie began a little uncertainly, wary about the subject.

She'd gotten the tattoo on an impulse, to mock herself really. But with a little reaching, it might reveal more about her than she would preferably like Riddle to know. Still, she didn't want to seem unjustly paranoid…

Sod it all.

"It's an Ouroboros," she explained with a shrug, "an ancient symbol for eternity and rebirth. It has a lot to do with alchemy, obviously…though I'm not through researching it just yet."

She indicated the open book on spirituality in front of her.

He was careful to sound innocuous when he asked, "What's religion to do with alchemy?"

"Quite possibly _everything_ …" she murmured absently, trying to go back to reading and remain hyperaware of him at the same time.

Maybe if she pretended to be absorbed, he'd go away and leave her alone.

No such luck.

"What do you plan to do after Hogwarts, Miss Parish?" His question jarred her out of her attempt at ignoring him. And when she looked up at him with an incredulous expression, he defended, "I only ask because, well…" he made an admirable attempt at looking modest, "after myself, you're the top student in our year. I've noticed you're quite diligent, which I find…curious for a girl, if you'll forgive my judgement. You seem like you could go places…"

She blinked blankly at him, nonplussed at his uncharacteristic probing.

Just what was he after?

"I _do_ plan on going places," she affirmed vaguely. "A great many places, if I can…" When she glimpsed a flash of impatience from him she added on a conciliatory, "Look, Riddle—it's really complicated. I tried explaining it to Slughorn once, and he smiled and nodded, you know, as he does, but he had this glazed look in his eye like he had no idea what I was on about. It was _humiliating_ …"

He leaned forward, attempting to catch her eye, (which she deftly avoided), and offered, "Give me the abridged version then, if you think me _incapable_ of understanding…"

Oh, hell, she'd offended him.

She squirmed uncomfortably and tried one last feeble protest.

"You'll think I'm _mad_ …"

She saw the corner of his mouth twitch up in clear amusement.

"Try me."

She'd really rather not, but Sophie let out a sigh of relent and closed her eyes sullenly in defeat. There didn't seem to be a way out of this without offending him further.

Finally, after a long, drawn out pause, she confessed, "I want to cultivate life on other planets—make them…habitable." She threw her hands up in a careless shrug. "So, there you have it. Mock me as you will."

But instead of criticism, all she received was a calculating stare.

"How exactly do you plan to accomplish that…?" she was surprised to hear him ask, seemingly intrigued.

"Erm…" she floundered a bit at the sudden interest. "Well, that's where the complicated bits come in. It may require some innovations which are not strictly, er… _legal_."

Riddle raised both his brows speculatively at her.

"Such as?"

She arched a brow right back.

"I don't think I'll be telling you about my illegal activities, Riddle, hypothetical or otherwise. You're a bloody prefect, remember?"

 _Yeah, and look how much that matters when he's sicking a giant venomous beast on the student body every other weekend_ , a voice that sounded like Eileen's snarked in her head.

Instead of seeming disappointed, however, Riddle just smirked.

"This is true," he actually had the gall to chuckle at her. "But you've caught my interest now," Sophie cursed herself inwardly at that as he voiced aloud, "I suppose I'll just have to earn your trust if I want to learn more..."

"Doubtful," Sophie told him abruptly. "I don't even trust Eileen with this business. The only reason I tell her about my hypothetical illicit activities is because I want her to know where to find my mangled body, just in case things go horrifically wrong…"

He gave her a highly alarmed look—which, for Riddle, was merely a slight elevation of the brows.

"Do you expect them to go wrong?"

"I don't think anyone ever _expects_ Murphy's Law to apply to them," she told him in lieu of an answer, then, toeing a thin line, smoothly transitioning the subject away from her goals, she added rather vindictively, "But then, with people being found stiff as death hither and yonder these days, one learns to appreciate all sorts of danger sprouting up in their midst, no…? Who's to say Slytherin's monster won't take it a step farther next time and kill someone?"

A slight frown marred Riddle's face. Slight, but there.

"I'm not sure if that's the point…" he opined obscurely. "The victims seem merely to have been petrified the last I checked with the matron. The intention, I think, is to scare off the muggle-borns…"

"Yes, well," Sophie muttered rather viciously, "I think whoever this so-called Heir of Slytherin on a power trip is—they're playing with _fire_. Someone's going to end up _dead_ , and then they're going to close down the school. And _then_ , there'll be no more Hogwarts for mudbloods, _or_ purebloods. Seems rather asinine if you ask me."

She'd just called him asinine to his face.

She thanked Merlin he didn't know she suspected him.

"You should hold your tongue, Miss Parish," Riddle warned, a dark look about him that told Sophie she may have crossed a line somewhere. "You never know who might be listening…"

Feeling brutishly defiant, Sophie thought, _damn it all to hell,_ and retorted, "Yeah? Good. I hope the stupid git hears me."

To his credit, Riddle remained completely composed.

 _Too_ composed.

She'd definitely crossed the line there, no mistake.

The barmy old hat should've sorted her into Gryffindor; she could practically sense moldy old Slytherin face-palming in his grave. Then again, she was fairly sure he wouldn't have approved of her anyway, so maybe he was cheering her on. _Go on, idiot mudblood girl, goad my Heir into plotting your ghastly demise, go on!_ Perhaps she really was going mad. Hearing all these voices in her head was not a good sign, she knew.

She sighed.

"I'm just angry…" she confessed, artfully displacing the fact that _he_ was the cause of said anger. "I hate being made to feel so powerless in all this… It's not fair, and it's driving me out of my bloody mind, Riddle. I'm tired of it, and I want it all to _stop_." She hissed bitterly, "Bastard couldn't have waited another year before he started all this _shite?_ It's inconsiderate, that's what it is…"

Surprisingly, he laughed at her.

"You care about graduation, but not about the mudbloods?" he asked, amused, dropping the politically correct term only _after_ she'd used the slur herself, she noticed critically.

"Not particularly," she lied abjectly. "But I don't want anyone to die either."

"I don't think anyone will die," he was decent enough to console her, dismissive as it was.

"Remember Murphy's Law, Riddle," she warned him sharply. "No one thinks it applies to them—but it _does_. The worst thing that can happen _always_ happens."

"That's a rather pessimistic way to view things…" he remarked blandly.

"Not so; I simply don't live in a fantasy world," she replied bitingly, and rather ironically if she did say so herself. "It's the law of the universe, Riddle. Chaos is a _pattern._ Entropy. It all points towards more and more disorder. If something can go wrong, it inevitably _will_. If anything, the mere probability _ensures_ it." She stood abruptly, gathering her things. "Anyway, I wish I could say I've enjoyed chatting with you, but this conversation has only served to remind me of _everything_ that is wrong with the world. Of course, that's not _your_ fault…"

 _It really,_ _ **really**_ _is_ , the voice in her head snarled.

"I'm sorry if I've upset you…" and, bless the little psychopath, he really seemed like he meant it.

"No-no, not at all." Sophie waved him off. "I'm just upset in general these days. Nothing to do with you. Honest."

 _It's_ _ **everything**_ _to do with you,_ the voice hissed venomously.

"If it makes you feel any better, I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed speaking with you, Miss Parish," Riddle stood as well, politely helping her with her books. "I found your viewpoint…highly illuminating." He caught her eye and said, "You're a very intelligent young woman…"

At that, she let out a rather unladylike snort.

"If you want to call insulting the Heir of Slytherin out where anybody can hear _intelligent_ …" she remarked sardonically.

The corner of his lip twitched in amusement.

"Some might call it brave," he suggested innocuously.

She merely raised her brow at him skeptically as she shouldered her bag.

"I'm a Slytherin, Riddle." She smirked right back at him. "If I valued _bravery_ any more than I value _horse dung_ the hat would have put me in Gryffindor… Though I applaud your efforts at a compliment, I think," she grinned openly now, "or was it an insult?"

"I think I'll safely leave that distinction up to you, Miss Parish…although," he paused deliberately in handing her back a book. "If I told you it _was_ a complement, would you allow me the honor of speaking to you on a first name basis, from now on?"

She almost gaped at him.

" _Really_ , Riddle? You snub me for years, and you choose _now_ to finally strike up a friendship? Why the sudden fancy?"

He shrugged elegantly—which Sophie did not buy for a second—and drawled, "The phrase, 'better late than never,' comes to mind…" His lips twitched in amusement again. "I apologize if you ever felt snubbed by me, Sophia."

The fact that he did not answer her question, nor did he directly apologize for snubbing her, did not escape her attention.

She shook her head slowly at him.

"You are bloody unbelievable, Tom Riddle."

His lips twitched again.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?"

"I'll safely leave that up to you," she mocked snidely, then swiftly turned on her heel and strode away without leaving him any definite answers.

If only she knew she'd just started a recipe for disaster, she would have whirled around and done everything she could to extinguish any interest in her he might or might not have had. She might've even been successful. But a discovery she made only when she was on the other side of the castle cemented her fate.

The book she'd found on basilisks, _Moste Macabre Monstrosities_ , that she'd planned on taking straight to Dumbledore was nowhere to be found…

" _Fuck!"_ she screeched, then she remembered when Riddle had handed back her books, and she screeched it again, heedless of the scandalized looks she received from those around her. She cursed him soundly, within her mind and without.

She thought _now_ might be the appropriate time for panic…

With that, she raced off to the dungeons to find Eileen.

* * *

 **Another take at a Harry Potter fic. Clearly not mine.**

 **I'm not British, but I'm trying to merge dialogue quirks as seamlessly as possible. If any of you kind Englanders out there notice any discrepancies, will you please let me know? Also, any suggestions on slang or idioms from around this era would be treated like gold nuggets!**

 **Sophie is portrayed by Malina Weissman in my mind.**

 **Please tell me what you think!**


	2. The Girl From Crouch End

***.*.*.***

 **CHAPTER TWO**

 ** _THE GIRL FROM CROUCH END_**

 **Hornsey, London,**

 **June 20, 1938**

A man dressed in garish yellow robes ambled unhurriedly along a peaceful little North London street called Cecile Park. It was located in a quaint little neighborhood in Hornsey called Crouch End—quite the opposite to the one he'd previously been in, visiting a little boy at an orphanage. Frequented predominately by the upper-middle class, the drizzly Crouch End seemed positively joyful in comparison. Dotted around with greenery that sheltered from the damp weather, the three-story row houses he passed were charming and picturesque, and as Cecile Park was located just off the clock tower in the town center, he could hear the pleasant tolling of the hour, the chime of bells merrily ringing through the air as the leaves rustled softly in the branches above. A disgruntled squirrel chattered at him as he passed beneath its domain, and though the man didn't much care for the hustle and bustle of the city proper, he imagined that if he did—much like his squirrely little friend—he might be found quite happily calling a place like this home.

The yellow garbed man stopped in front of a town-home with a navy-blue door set in a pillared façade with a golden letter slot and twin window panes lined with stain glass; the number 29 was clearly visible on the diocletian half-moon pane above the entrance. The trendy, modern house was made from brick and sported a big bay window on the first floor, three scafolded windows on the second, and two arched windows up top. Two flues lined the house on either side, giving the place a wholly symmetrical look, and a carefully trimmed hedge lined the short brick wall in front of the house. Smiling fondly at the well-groomed front yard, the man strode straight passed it, and up the front steps—exactly seven of them—to tap politely on the front door. Instantly, he saw a pale face appear in the bay window, peaking slyly at him from around the drapes, but the auburn-haired man spotted her and gave her a funny little wave.

The startled face vanished just as soon as it had appeared, and the man heard a faint voice call behind the door, " _Mummy! Mother! There's a man in a silly hat on the front stoop!"_

The man smiled serenely as the door cracked open to reveal a pleasant faced woman with a toddler on her hip. She wore a periwinkle blue dress with a white, flour dusted apron tied over the skirt, and her long, wavy brunette hair—which her young son appeared to be deep in the process of dismantling—looked to have been done up in an immaculate French twist previously. She seemed harried, and preoccupied, but her bright green eyes were kindly, if not a bit alarmed as she took in the appearance of the eccentrically dressed man on her front stoop.

"Yes, hello," she said hurriedly, but not unkindly, "may I help you, Mister…"

"My deepest apologies for dropping by unannounced. I am Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madam," he introduced himself with a smile, and lightly shook the woman's free hand. "And, unless I am frightfully mistaken, you must be Miss Sophia Parish's mother…"

The woman's grip on his hand went slack and the kindly curious look in her eye lost a good bit of its luster as soon as he mentioned Sophia.

"Oh dear…" she breathed, fretting quietly, "what has she done now?"

"Done?" Dumbledore questioned quietly, and though he had a good guess at what the woman meant, he politely feigned ignorance, "Why, I'm quite sure I don't know, Missus Parish. Although I would very much like to speak with her—and yourself, of course—about her education."

Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it was not this, and the woman's brows scooted up close to her hairline. She blinked several times, but seemed to shake herself out of whatever stupor she'd fallen into when her son tugged on her hair.

She gently extracted it from the small boy's grip in distraction before addressing the man again, merely echoing, "Her education, is it?"

"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed once more, smiling benignly with the explanation, "I represent a boarding school for gifted children in Scotland."

Mrs. Parish blinked again and softly parroted, "…Gifted?"

"Yes." Dumbledore nodded patiently with a knowing look in his eyes. " _Gifted_."

Mrs. Parish's eyes took on a knowing glint of their own, and Dumbledore decided that she was quite an intelligent woman.

"…Ah," was all she said in response to that, smiling in a wobbly yet polite and composed sort of way, which earned her a good deal of respect from the man on her stoop. "Yes, well it's good of you to find us now, really. Indeed, you're right on time—we've just started tea. Would you like to come in, Professor?"

"I'd be delighted." Dumbledore beamed at her and stepped indoors, nodding a short little hello to the boy who giggled on his mother's hip as he passed.

He was led into a cluttered, yet cozy sitting room with fleur-de-lis wallpaper and comfortable looking armchairs lined by elegant tea tables and reading lamps. A packed book case lined the walls on either side of the door and on the far side of the room was a stately scafolded mantle and fireplace. A few gilded paintings of beautiful landscapes hung here and there which Dumbledore admired from afar. The ornate rug was strewn with various children's toys that had been left out, making Mrs. Parish huff a put-upon sigh, and in the middle of the room, on the floor, at an oval coffee table scattered with books and papers, a little girl with the same button nose as her mother and brother sat on her heels, writing something furiously on one of the stacks of loose-leaf. From what Dumbledore could tell by the spare few details he could spot over her shoulder, it appeared to be a very strongly worded letter to the local municipality about fixing the potholes in the neighborhood; the scathing rhetoric she used made him smile.

"Sophie," her mother called, and the girl looked up sharply, "will you watch your brother and entertain our guest while I finish up tea please?"

The girl gave Dumbledore a leery, assessing onceover, but nodded just the same.

"Certainly, Mother." Sophie answered politely, set down her fountain pen, and strode over, taking the small, dark haired boy from the older woman and setting him carefully amongst some letter blocks to occupy himself with, patting his head as if he were a well-behaved puppy rather than a human being.

The boy didn't seem to mind though. By the toothy grin he gave her, the child appeared to adore his elder sister. It reminded him starkly of himself and his own younger brother at that age, he realized with a pang of all too familiar regret and bittersweet nostalgia.

"Please, take a seat wherever you like," Mrs. Parish offered graciously, edging out of the room. "I shall return shortly. Sophie, dear—" she looked sharply to her daughter "—be kind to our guest. He's here to talk to you about school. Isn't that nice?"

"School…? With others?" the girl inquired, brow furrowed, and she looked puzzledly to the professor. "Father teaches me from home. It's better this way."

" _Sophie_ ," her mother admonished on her way out the door, "be polite to the professor!"

She left the three of them alone, the heavenly aroma of baking coming from the direction of what must be the kitchen, somewhere deeper in the house. Sophie sat with her brother, patiently helping him stack blocks and amusing him by tipping them over with a solitary digit which never failed to send the boy into peals of high pitched laughter. She cast curious glances at the man unwittingly sitting in her father's favorite smoking chair every now and then, instigating a rather awkward silence between them. That was until the man thought to break it as if it had never been insinuated upon them at all.

"Why don't you go to school with the other children, Miss Parish?" he asked softly, already knowing the likely answer.

She shrugged a shoulder noncommittally, and her explanation was short.

"Got expelled…"

Perhaps he hadn't quite been expecting _that_ answer…

"Whatever for?" he questioned further, taken aback.

Sophie shrugged again with yet another abrupt answer.

"Father says I'm not to speak of it…"

Somehow, Dumbledore got the feeling she was being intentionally vague, and resisted the urge to skim her thoughts on the matter. Legillimancy had at one time been a curious side project during his school days, but somehow it had evolved into a very ugly habit…

"And where is your father, might I ask?"

"Away…" she supplied minimally once again, and may have left it at that, but at the way his brow arched up expectantly, she seemed to reconsider, and added grudgingly, "He's away on business overseas. Father often collaborates with his colleagues over in America." At Dumbledore's thoughtful nods the girl was prompted to explain further, "Father is a professor as well—an astrophysicist. He works to advise other physicists, like Einstein, Oppenheimer…"

She continued to list names to him as if she expected him to know who these men were. He didn't, yet he continued to smile and nod along with her anyway.

Annoyed when he showed no sign of comprehension, she summarized shortly, "They're all _extremely_ important, _extremely_ intelligent people who are designing innovations to assist in the war effort…"

"Ah, quite," he agreed, if only to ease the young girl's vexation with him.

Really, he found it quite amusing.

Professor Dumbledore often found himself musing on the future sorting of students he visited at their homes. Sophie Parish was a precocious child; that was for certain. A Ravenclaw in the making, perhaps? And yet the way she eyed him so distrustfully and how pridefully she spoke of her father and his work suggested another placement entirely… But surely…surely with her background, such an inauspicious sorting would not be likely.

"Miss Parish…" he began with his usual spiel for muggle-borns, "have you ever noticed strange things happening about you? Things that might seem impossible to explain?"

The girl's already pale countenance took on an even lighter pallor. Then her eyes narrowed and she stood up and paced over until she was standing boldly before him.

" _Who are you?"_ she asked bluntly.

He smiled.

"My name is Professor Dumbledore."

The girl froze, staring at him with wide-blown eyes.

And then she laughed.

She laughed long and hard.

After a while of this, he remarked that she almost sounded crazed.

"It does sound a bit funny, doesn't it?"

He smiled again, but this time it did not reach his eyes, unsettled by the girl's strange reaction.

Sophie's eyes were still big, a wide grin of disbelief spread across her face.

"You—you're Albus- _bloody_ -Dumbledore," she laughed, shaking her head.

"Actually," he interjected, veiling his surprise and indignation for the most part under his perpetually polite veneer, "it's Albus _Percival Wulfric Brian_ Dumbledore—not Bloody, although that is a common enough mistake—however, if I am to become your teacher, Miss Parish, you will call me Professor, or Sir. Whichever you prefer."

The hysterical grin faded from her face gradually at his sobering tone.

"Y-you're not supposed to be real," she whispered, her hysterical mirth quickly being exchanged for astonishment. "Y-you're just a story…"

"I assure you, I am as real as you are, Miss Parish." He smiled pleasantly. "And I'd be very interested to know who's been telling stories about me…"

"Stowie!" Sophie's brother clapped his hands, eager to contribute to the conversation. "Sopie tewl fun stowies!"

Sophie's face lost even more of its color, taking on a sickly grey pallor.

At Dumbledore's expectant x-raying gaze, she swallowed thickly, and began, "N-nobody told me any stories—I…" she hesitated, stumbling over her words, then looked up from the floor almost guiltily and admitted, "I've always known them… I've just…since the beginning, I've…" she returned to addressing her feet, with a small shrug, "I've always known…"

The professor eyed her critically over his laced hands, his interest in one Miss Sophie Parish having increased exponentially in the space of less than a minute.

He studied her carefully for a long moment before asking, "Do you know what you are, Miss Parish?"

She looked carefully up from her feet with a rather dejected sounding, "I do _now_ …" She hesitated a little before adding, "Witches, wizards, magic… You're telling me it's all real?" Even more hesitantly, she added, "…Not a story?"

"Not a story," he confirmed with a smile.

"I'm going to _Hogwarts_ …?" Sophie's hushed voice hitched with some raw emotion and what sounded like suppressed childish glee.

"If you and your parents wish it." Dumbledore slipped a wax-sealed letter out of his sleeve and handed it to her, amused at her shoddily disguised enthusiasm as she took it almost reverently. It tugged at his sympathies a little. It was always this way with muggle-borns, no matter how self-contained they pretended to be. Contrary to popular belief, and in his own personal experience as an educator, Dumbledore found these students always had the potential for so much… _more_ than those brought up around magic, simply because they had already learned not to take it for granted. "You'll find we have a wide range of classes to choose from, Miss Parish—divination among them. That's the study of—"

"—divining the future—yes, I know—it's not that," she inserted abruptly, furiously shaking her head and insisting, "Whatever it is that I have, it's not—I'm not a _seer_ … That's not what this is."

She seemed quite adamant about this fact.

Dumbledore's brows motioned towards his hairline in askance, and wondered, "Then what do _you_ propose it is?"

She looked to be about to share a theory, but thought better of it, biting back her words with a quick shake of her head.

"I can't know for certain, but…" She met his eyes with staunch determination. "I'd like very much to find out, Sir."

Slowly, Dumbledore smiled.

"I very much look forward to having you as a student, Miss Parish," he said sincerely. "I'll admit to finding myself intrigued by this delightful conversation."

Sophie let out a bark of cynical laughter, appearing much more charitable and open than she had been with him previously.

"Unfortunately, as you might have gathered, I'm not much one for 'delightful conversation,' Sir…" She smiled self-depreciatingly. "I'm afraid I've gone against Mother's wishes and been terribly rude. Is there any way I can make it up to you?"

"Fortunately, first impressions are often wrong." He smiled benignly at her. "I believe wholeheartedly in second chances."

"Sopie," the girl's small brother complained in an adorably high-pitched entreaty, tired of being excluded from the conversation evidently, and tugging on his older sibling's skirt. "Pway…"

"Not now, Hogie," she sighed, impatiently tugging her skirt away.

Dumbledore was once again painfully reminded of himself and Aberforth at that age. The adoring younger brother, and the prodigious elder sibling, too busy and too important to make time for him.

'Hogie' seemed unwilling to take no for an answer, however…

" _Pway!"_ he shouted angrily, swiping at his block tower in frustration.

"Alright, alright, alright!" Sophie acquiesced quickly, appearing to sense a tantrum coming on. She turned to the small boy and pointed her thumb and forefinger at him in the shape of what Dumbledore could only assume was a checkmark, with the stern butchered Western American accent she demanded, "Put 'em up, partner!"

In response, the boy stuck his arms up in the air and repeated, "Up!"

All of Hogie's blocks levitated into the air at once.

It appeared the magic ran strong in this generation of the Parish family.

"Yaaay…" Sophie applauded the boy with the proper amount of enthusiasm that seemed more of a rehearsed response to the boy's display of magic than anything else. Then she said, "Simon saaaaays…run around the house sixteen times!"

The boy was up and out of the room so fast, Dumbledore barely saw him move. Magic was clearly involved.

"We're still working on his potty training, but he's still better at magic than I am," Sophie confessed to when she noticed his intrigued expression. She shook her head and explained further, "Father asked me to prove it once, but my powers are sneaky. It only manifests when I'm angry, or frustrated…and whenever Father's not looking, for whatever reason. Because of that, he doesn't believe in magic…but Mother pays more attention, and she suspects, I think." She looked at him with a resigned shrug. "When Hogie asks, I just tell him we have superpowers…"

"Superpowers?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Yeah—you know, like superheroes?"

"I'm afraid I _don't_ know. Muggle terms often elude me, unfortunately," he admitted with a bashful grin.

She gaped at him for a moment, then seemed to come to some inner resolve.

"Wait here," she directed brusquely, "I'll be right back."

She scurried out of the room.

While she was gone, Mrs. Parish arrived, supporting a tea tray loaded with biscuits and tiny sandwiches on one arm and her giggling toddler under the other.

"Good gracious, please, allow me, Missus Parish," the professor insisted, and with a wave of his wand, Sophie's scattered books and papers arranged themselves neatly, making space for the tea tray that levitated itself onto the coffee table.

The muggle woman's eyes widened, but she didn't seem as surprised as she could have been. As a mother of two magical children, Dumbledore didn't expect her to be.

"So it's true," she breathed, collapsing into the armchair across from him and settling her son on her lap. "There's really a school for…" The woman shook her head slowly at him. "And there's…there's more of you out there?"

"Oh yes," he assured her. "But you'll find we can be quite subtle… There is a law in place all the world over, you see; one that stipulates strict secrecy from the non-magical world." His eyes twinkled at her as he tried to impart with good humor, "In fact, were it not for your two extraordinary children, this conversation we've been having would be considered very much illegal."

"The way you speak of it, one would think we're living in two separate worlds…" Mrs. Parish remarked puzzledly.

"That is perhaps a valid way of looking at things… You're not wrong, Missus Parish," Dumbledore agreed, not unsympathetically.

"Please," the woman sighed, "do call me Jane."

"Miss Jane," He offered her a courteous smile. "I understand the ways of wizards _do_ make things challenging for non-magical parents… I'm sure there have been many times that you have felt lost in trying to do what is best for your family and raise your children properly. Although," he added sincerely, "if I may say so, I think you have done a very fine job of that indeed."

Mrs. Parish's face glowed with pride, making her look beautiful despite her harried, flustered state. Her smile was warm and held that certain quality which can light up a whole room.

"It's kind of you to say so…" She nodded gratefully to him. "It _has_ been hard…especially with my husband being out of the country so often, what, with war and unrest brewing on the continent… Things have been difficult, and…Crispin is not here often enough to see the things I have seen in Sophie and Hogan. He doesn't…" The woman's green eyes were downcast as she worried a cross necklace between her fingers, but she smiled fondly through it, and concluded, "My husband does not believe in what cannot be explained by science."

Dumbledore nodded in grim understanding.

"That's unfortunate…" He met Mrs. Parish's eyes significantly. "However, I must stress that the consequences of leaving magic untrained and unchecked in the adolescent can prove disastrous."

The anxious mother's brow furrowed, troubled, and she asked, "In what way, precisely? Is there reason for worry?"

"I shouldn't think so—not at the moment, perhaps; not when they're here at home living peacefully with their mother, no," he made sure to put her mind at ease on that front. "However…"

His thoughts hung heavily on Ariana…

"…Yes?" Mrs. Parish fretted worriedly.

"However…" Dumbledore said again with grim contemplation. "Tragedy often strikes when we least expect it… And there may come a time—heaven forbid—when war does indeed reach our shores. If the worst should happen, if their home is no longer a place of peace, but of constant uncertainty and fear…" He paused severely, before explaining, "Untrained magic can be a fragile and tremendously volatile force, Miss Jane." He sighed, and at the mother's kind, concerned features, he felt it necessary to explain further, "My own sister suffered a traumatic incident in her youth…one which, I'm sad to say, she never recovered from. She was never the same again, and became prone to violent, explosive fits that could be…" he paused, his thoughts far away at a cottage in Godric's Hallow, "extremely dangerous…"

He trailed off, his mind plagued with the flashes of various curses, and how quickly— _how quickly_ —everything had happened. But he rapidly extracted himself from this part of his mind. Though many had tried, ultimately, there was no changing the past. And it did not do to tarry there long… With a little shake of his head, he focused once more on Mrs. Parish's worried eyes.

"Magic," he summarized, "though deeply fantastical, fascinating, and marvelously fabulous at its best—" Here, he waved his wand and floating fairy lights danced from the tip, dazzling Mrs. Parish momentarily before fading before her eyes "—at its worst," and here Dumbledore's solemn voice took on an ominous note, "…it can be quite the opposite."

A purple fire suddenly roared to life in the empty grate, though instead of lightening the room with warmth, it radiated a distinctly cold and sinister feeling. And as Mrs. Parish stared deeply into the angry plumes of flame, she thought she could make out the tormented faces of the damned… Surely though—surely it was just her mind playing tricks on her, wasn't it? Little Hogan, still situated on her lap, sniffled piteously and shied away to hide his face in his mother's arms.

A moment later, as if snapping out of a trance, Dumbledore tore his eyes away from the terrible visions in the flames and, with a wave of his wand, they were gone. The ominous feeling vanished along with it as if by…well, _magic_. Meeting the disconcerted gaze of his kind host, he offered her an apologetic nod for the demonstrative display, and next, upon the untouched tea tray, he conjured a vase of flowers to match the décor in the sitting room as a consolation.

"Oh, how dear of you," Mrs. Parish exclaimed, reaching the stroke the petals of the flowers. "Petunias are my favorite… However did you know?"

Legillimancy was a filthy, dirty habit, he reminded himself sternly.

His eyes twinkled at her disarmingly.

"…Shall we call it intuition?"

When he noticed young Hogan still eyeing the fireplace warily, he felt a stab of guilt for scaring the child and bewitched a scattered platoon of toy soldiers next to his boot to march over to him in formation. Naturally, the child was elated with his newfound friends, and by the time Sophie returned to the drawing room with what looked to be several magazines stacked in her arms, he was giving out orders and forming what Dumbledore could only imagine to be elaborate battle plans in garbled two-year-old speech that he presumed only his mother could understand, as the woman kept smiling at her son and laughing at his enthusiastic play.

Sophie unceremoniously shoved some magazines into the professor's arms. At a glance, they appeared to be some sort of pulp fiction series and detective stories. One, proclaiming itself to be _The Shadow_ with large, bombastic letters, detailed a dark, fierce, shrouded man in a wide-brimmed fedora and a crimson scarf pulled up to his nose. Another pictured a handsome, muscular man in tattered clothing, standing before a dreary island backdrop with what looked to be a giant gorilla. This one was titled _Doc Savage: Skull Island_.

"Oh, Sophie, dear," her mother fretted over her cup of tea, "don't bother the professor with such things." Mrs. Parish looked to him with an embarrassed pink to her cheeks at the girl's antics, explaining, "She's been fixated on these silly sleuthers serials ever since her father brought them home from his trip…"

"Maybe if you'd _read_ them, you'd see why," Sophie shot with so much superiority for an eleven-year-old that it was laughable. Her dear, overworked mother rolled her eyes subtly at the girls back when she turned back to Dumbledore and pointed out the magazine covers.

" _These_ are superheroes. Well—" the girl amended, "the early ones anyway. The real superheroes won't be conceived until the war is in full swing, I imagine… People will be wanting to hope for something, so they will imagine worlds where ordinary men can become extraordinary." Her lips quirked a crooked smile, even as she talked of the prospect of war with such surety. "I suppose by that logic it's selfish of me to wish for such things, but sometimes the greatest of accomplishments can be born from the greatest adversity—don't you agree?"

"I do indeed…" Dumbledore nodded, considering the girl closely. Clearly, she could be considered extraordinary in her own right, he judged. It was just the slightest bit unnerving...

Seeming a little disconcerted by his weighty stare, she shifted on her feet and shuffled through some more magazines in her arms, finally arriving on something of a scrapbook.

"Here," she said, opening the book to reveal several newspaper clippings, "you'll love this one. I keep adding to it every time Father brings the newspapers back from America. You can borrow it until term starts…"

Dumbledore noticed she was very eager to share, and with a tug at his heartstrings, he imagined she must be quite anxious to finally have a confidant in someone experienced in all things magical. Muggle-born children were often extensively lonely, even when they had doting families to support them. No matter how loved they were, it did not necessarily mean they were understood… And so Dumbledore endeavored to humor the girl, smiling kindly as he took the scrapbook from her.

The clippings appeared to be multiple panels of still, Muggle caricatures, featuring a square jawed man sporting a Clark Gable moustache in a cape and top hat. The man carried a stylistic wand and Dumbledore found his smile widening as he spotted the title panel.

 _Mandrake the Magician_.

"You said I may borrow this, Miss Parish?"

"Absolutely." The girl grinned smugly, pleased she'd judged him so easily.

And she had, somehow.

Dumbledore didn't like to think of himself as transparent, as only few who were close to him knew of his newfound love for these sorts of things, which pictured witches and wizards from a Muggle perspective. He found the misconceptions they had about wizard-kind humorous and fascinating, and yet, as he leafed through the scrapbook, he had to wonder if the author of the comic strip didn't in fact know a witch or a wizard personally. The strip featured the hero—Mandrake, he was called, incidentally—performing at least six different spells Dumbledore knew to be existent. He theorized perhaps that the author may have been a subject of New York City's incident of around a decade ago involving a thunder bird, sweeping evil venom, and a former student of his. He had it under good authority from Mr. Scamander that latent memories, seemingly erased by the venom, could return in rather unorthodox ways, such as through pastry making—or perhaps, Dumbledore mused delightedly, through comic panel illustrations…

He was about to thank the girl sincerely when, quite alarmingly, she let out a sudden yelp of pain, cradling one foot and hopping unsteadily on the other. The raucous peals of laughter from her little brother revealed the culprit immediately, as did the bayonet wielding toy soldier jabbing fiercely at Sophie's ankles.

" _HOGIE!"_ the girl roared irately, whirling around and launching herself at her younger sibling with vengeance in her eyes.

The boy's face assumed a startled lapine expression that said he knew _exactly_ what was in store for him, and he made a valiant attempt to flee, but his sister was faster this time. She caught him around his middle, tackling him to the floor with a rough thud, and proceeded to attack his ribcage with relentless tickling fingers. Hogan let out earsplitting shrieks of forced laughter, attempting desperately to crawl away, yet somehow he still appeared to be having fun, despite the torture his older sibling was subjecting him to.

It was over all too quickly when Mrs. Parish shot to her feet and ordered, "To your bedrooms—both of you!"

Sophie froze and gaped at the woman over her shoulder.

"But, Mother, I've not had my tea yet!"

Hogan gave a similar petulant, mournful sounding response as if the whole world had all at once turned against him.

"Well you should've thought of that before you started acting like savages in front of our guest," their mother replied to both of their protests sharply. "Now go!"

Sophie stood furiously and stalked out of the room without a second glance; her stomping could be heard up all three staircases. Hogan slouched miserably after her with sad eyes, his platoon of toy soldiers trailing dejectedly out of the drawing room behind him. Mrs. Parish sighed heavily but sent a smile over at Dumbledore.

"And to think," she laughed tiredly, a hand resting on her ever so slightly rounded abdomen, "I've another on the way. A girl again, we suspect."

"Congratulations are in order, I see." The wizard nodded politely. "Have you decided on any names yet?"

"No-no," She waved him off. "too soon for that, I think… Though I suppose we should make an effort for something more magical sounding this time, shouldn't we?"

"Not necessarily," Dumbledore explained. "Really, that there should be two magical children at all is rather a rarity in a non-magical family. Lighting does not usually strike twice, or so they say—a third time would be highly unusual, though I would not dismiss the prospect entirely."

"Oh, well…" Mrs. Parish smiled a little nervously. "I hope you'll forgive me, Professor, if I seem relived…"

"Of course." He nodded graciously. "As I said, I can't imagine it's been easy for you, as their mother. Indeed, from my own experience in looking after the minds of hundreds of magical children per year, I can attest to that fact quite vehemently, and I am—if you'll forgive me for saying so—a fairly accomplished wizard at that."

The woman giggled behind her hand and remarked, "That certainly puts things in perspective, doesn't it?"

"I should hope so." Dumbledore smiled back charmingly. "For that is precisely the reason I am here. Should you have any questions, Miss Jane, any at all, please, I implore you to ask them; I am completely at your disposal."

"Well, in that case," Mrs. Parish began contemplatively with a somewhat apologetic, "I hope you're ready for this…"

She then proceeded to verbally flog him with a nearly overwhelming volley of questions up to and including the inner workings of Diagon Alley and the Gringotts currency exchange system. It was all he could do to keep up with her, but he was quite happy to supply the answers she sought, and remarked inwardly once again that Jane Martha Parish was very astute for a housewife. She asked about the school, of course, and what subjects they offered, but took it a step further and asked what career opportunities were available for the magically inclined—something most non-magical parents neglected, too overwhelmed by recent revelations to think of such things as young magicians going on to have careers. Mrs. Parish, on the other hand, seemed to realize that it was unlikely she'd ever have a chance like this again, and could not have done a better job of sucking up every ounce of information he could offer her if she had been a vampire.

In the end, she decided, "I'll need to talk this over with my husband…but if I can convince him—" here she tried to hide a sly little smile in the corner of her mouth "—and you can trust that I have my ways of doing so—we'll be seeing Sophia off on the first of September, precisely on schedule."

"Fantastic." Dumbledore beamed at her, unwilling to question the woman's ways of coercion towards her academia obsessed husband. "And shall I be accompanying you to the Alley then?"

"I can think of nothing I'd like more," she demurred, almost flirtatiously, yet there was a teasing glint in the emerald eyes she shared with her daughter. Likewise, they spoke of knowing too much, yet unlike her daughter, the keenly discerning Mrs. Parish seemed to have picked up on something that made him altogether uncomfortable… "Does sometime next week work well for you, Professor?"

They agreed to meet the coming Wednesday at nine in the morning. Afterwards, as if sensing she'd made a misstep somewhere, Mrs. Parish saw him off with a tin full of the exquisite shortbread she'd made for tea, once again proving her perceptiveness, given she'd clearly chosen due to observing his partiality for the treat; he'd always had a bit of a sweet tooth, if he was honest with himself. To cement this truth in his mind, as he was leaving, he glanced up at one of the windows to see the pale face of Sophia peering down at him. When he waved, the girl merely scrawled something on a sheet of loose leaf, then plastered it on the window with one hand.

The note read in all capital letters: **SHE SEES** ** _EVERYTHING_**.

Albus Dumbledore wasn't sure whether to laugh, or be unnerved.

All he knew for certain was that it was sure to be an interesting next seven years…

* * *

 **So there's chapter two, and chapter three's well on its way. I know, I'm astonished too. Hope you liked it!**

 **And, yes. Yes, that was Dumbledore. It's my first time writing him, so I hope he turned out alright, and most importantly in character. There's also a Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them reference in there if you squint. (Can't tell you how pleased I am with this new take on the franchise. Drop me a message if you want to talk theories!) We get to know the Parish family a little in this chapter, and they will feature more heavily later on in the series if I have my way. I already know how this story is going to end, but there's a LOT that happens in between. There's new developments and plot twists happening all the time, and I'll let you know right now that I'm entirely open to suggestions!**

 **If there's something you'd like to see happen in the future, don't be afraid to drop a review!**


End file.
